


We Refuse To Die

by groundyonly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7004071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundyonly/pseuds/groundyonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Season 3:6 ("Death of a Hero"), d'Artagnan and Porthos reflect.<br/>MAJOR spoilers for season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Refuse To Die

Huge spoiler for Series 3, Episode 6, “Death of a Hero.” That evening at the garrison, d’Artagnan and Porthos reflect.

* TM * TM * TM *

 

_(This dialogue taken from the episode):_

“This is not my day.”

“I have none of that. No wife, no children, no one.”

“You have friends. _Great_ friends. I have no doubt that one day you will have a wife and child of your own.”

“Yeah, one day. And I won’t let anyone take that away from me. They won’t kill us today.”

_**“WE REFUSE TO DIE!”** _

 

* TM * TM * TM * TM * TM *

“So, are you going to tell Aramis?”

Porthos threw a look over his shoulder, then looked back to his goblet of wine. “Tell him what?”

“That you’re hurt.” D’Artagnan moved in and sat beside his friend on the bench at the garrison. Porthos said nothing. “I saw how you winced your way through the King’s announcement that Feron would have a full state funeral. If you’ve cracked a few ribs, you need to tell him.”

Porthos grunted a small laugh. “Those are fine words from someone who can’t take his own advice.”

“What do you mean?”

Another snort and a sideways glance at the Gascon. “If I were to give you a friendly punch on that shoulder of yours, how would you like it?”

“I’d be _fine_ with it.”

Porthos made the move—and d’Artagnan flinched away. Both men regretted the actions, and reached to soothe the tender areas.

Porthos shook his head and took a drink of wine. “That’s what I thought.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“Of course it’s not.”

The pair lapsed into silence. D’Artagnan’s mind wandered, back to the talk they’d had when everything looked so bleak; when they were surrounded by the enemy, outnumbered and with no reinforcements in sight; when they were certain they were going to die, but would not admit it. And then to when they were buried underneath the rubble, and breathing was so difficult, and so painful, and it would have been ashamedly easy to just close his eyes and give in to the fear that was pressing down on his chest as powerfully as the wood and stone of the building. Until that hand reached out. And that voice: “D’Artagnan… brother…” urging him back into the fight. Into life. _This is not our day. We refuse to die!_

D’Artagnan stared at the table, the images and the sounds playing there as clearly as when the events happened. “Thank you,” the Gascon said softly, the impact finally coming home to him in the twilight and the quiet. “For today. For… for today.” 

Further words failed him, but he appeared not to need them, as after a moment he felt a hand on his forearm. He looked at it as his eyes filled and his throat constricted; the fingers gripped more tightly. “It wasn’t our day,” Porthos said meaningfully.

D’Artagnan offered a watery smile as he nodded and blinked away the unexpected emotion. “It wasn’t,” he agreed. 

“And you’ve seen Constance again,” Porthos reminded him.

D’Artagnan nodded again. “I have.”

“But not your children.” D’Artagnan looked up then, searching his friend’s eyes in the fading light. There was a softness in them that always took the young man by surprise, no matter how long he knew the bigger musketeer. It never failed to buoy him. “You haven’t seen your children yet, d’Artagnan. Your time is a long way off.”

D’Artagnan put his hand on top of his friend’s. “And so is yours.” He waited for Porthos to meet his eyes before he continued. “I meant what I said back there. I have no doubt that one day you will have a wife and children of your own.”

“I know.” Porthos nodded. Then he screwed up his face, thinking. “I was wrong.”

“What about?”

“When we were back there, and I said that I have no one. I was wrong. I may not have a wife or children, but I have brothers. I have _you._ You, and Aramis, and Athos.”

D’Artagnan offered a small nod of encouragement. “You do.”

“That means everything to me,” Porthos continued. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like—”

“I understood what you meant, Porthos. And you will have us, always.”

Porthos clamped his free hand on top of d’Artagnan’s, but drew back immediately when the younger man choked out a breath and then tried to school his breathing. “That’s your sword hand,” he said.

D’Artagnan cradled his injured hand, waiting until he had his breathing under control before he answered. “It’s just a bit sore.”

A voice from behind startled them both. “Would you mind letting someone with actual medical knowledge confirm that?”

The pair turned to see Aramis approaching.

“Athos and I were starting to feel left out,” the marksman said as he came to stand behind them. “I thought I’d come and look for you… especially after he told me what happened to you while I was away with the King.”

“We managed,” Porthos said. “Even if d’Artagnan let the only barrel of wine there get shot through…”

“I said I was sorry about that!” the Gascon protested without heat. “And anyway, I’m fine.”

“Humor me, would you, please?” Aramis proposed. 

“He’s hurt his shoulder, too,” Porthos piped up. 

D’Artagnan shot his friend a harmless, but defiant, look. “I think Porthos has cracked some ribs,” he announced.

But Porthos would not be outdone. “And he was real shaky for awhile. That cut on his forehead—probably rattled his brain some, too.” He shot his friend a lopsided grin. “Not that you could tell,” he added.

D’Artagnan took the playful ribbing in stride. “I saw Porthos limping before.”

“Now, that was a pebble in my boot—”

“Come now, gentlemen,” Aramis said, raising his hands to stop the one-upmanship. “I’ll be checking you both thoroughly.” He took a step back and gestured toward the garrison infirmary. “Now if you’d like to come with me, please?”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged sheepish glances, then stood up and moved stiffly away as ordered. Aramis followed, shaking his head

“There wasn’t any pebble in your boot _before_ the place blew.”

“It landed with the debris. And what was all that sword fighting after you hurt your shoulder? Haven’t we taught you to look after yourself better than that?”

“And who was going to save you from yourself if I hadn’t, _hm?_ You can’t fight well when you can’t breathe properly, and you _don’t_ breathe right when your ribs are cracked—”

“I did just fine for myself, thanks.”

“For a minute, but you weren’t going to last long.”

Aramis sighed as he took in the good-humored bickering. “Brothers,” he muttered. He quietly thanked God they were alive to drive each other crazy, and ushered them into his care.


End file.
